Tomorrow

Her eyes keep counting exits,
hands held tight in her lap.
She sits where she can see the door,
like the room might turn on her
if she lets her guard down.

People say things to her.
Kind things, probably.
Gentle platitudes with careful faces.
I've heard them all before.

She nods
the way you nod when words
have stopped meaning anything.

I want to tell her
I know.

I know how the world goes dim
when the past barges in uninvited.
How nights fracture without warning.
How the ceiling becomes a movie screen
for scenes you never asked to replay.

I know the sudden terror
in ordinary moments.
Footsteps.
Voices.
Hands that move too fast.

The way memory
refuses to stay in the past
like they promise it will.

I want to sit beside her.
I want to tell her
it wasn't her fault.

Not the freezing.
Not the silence.
Not the part of her
that just wanted to survive.

But she wouldn't believe me.

I want to tell her that one day
the nightmares will thin out.
The flashbacks will lose their teeth.
The fear will loosen its grip
with each quiet exhale.

I want to tell her
laughter will come back
like a cautious animal
stepping into a clearing.

But she wouldn't hear me.
Not yet.

So I sit across from her
with all these words
burning holes in my chest
and hope that somewhere inside her
beneath the rubble,
beneath the noise,
beneath the long echo of what was done,
some small stubborn part of her

is still listening
for a voice
that believes in tomorrow.